After the harpoon has twisted itself into my back and has been pulled free, I begin to decay. My lungs no longer full with air, but with the remnants of saltwater and sand and chum.
Poetry by Jennifer Thal
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Thirty minutes after takeoff, I realized the old man sitting next to me had died. We hit some turbulence, and his hand fell from the armrest onto my right leg. I waited, expecting the old man to pick his arm back up, but his eyes remained closed, his head stayed cocked back, and the backside of his hand continued to rest on my lap.
Fiction by Cara Albert
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Sam’s hand is palm down in front of my face, the way it always is when we do it in a certain way. I look around, trying to find a place to rest my gaze that isn’t the barren wall ahead or the tangle of clothes on the floor. And so I stare down at his right hand. It is mostly flat and white against the blue sheet, except for the red peaks of his knuckles, which form a crooked line.
Flash Fiction by Joy Bullen
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For the first couple of weeks, it was mostly about the sex. When you’ve got fifteen years to make up for, and you only get to see other a few times a week, usually just for an hour or two, there’s not much leisure for doing sudoku together.
Fiction by Tom Gartner
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